


Little Wolves

by The_Otter_Knight



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 100 Prompt OTP Challenge, 100 Themes Challenge, Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different Appearance, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Different Parents, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Not Related, Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Artist's Block, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flirting, Holding Hands, Incest, Language Barrier, Literal Sleeping Together, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Photography, Platonic Cuddling, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, those arent real tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-02-25 16:23:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2628236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Otter_Knight/pseuds/The_Otter_Knight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of prompted fics based around the relationship of Jon and Arya.<br/> <br/><i>4. Art</i><br/><i>She is walking alongside her cousin, but where her cousin was saddled with Italian fashion, Arya kept a heavyset camera dangling along her neck. Her mouth is set in a straight line, her hands clasped tightly along her precious possession. The people who normally crowded the streets of Venice were filing out, returning to their homes soon enough. She looks from storefront to storefront, looking but not seeing. She's about to turn onto another street when someone catches her attention, a young man who is sitting alone, a canvas in front of him and splashes of paint dotting it. She can't help but think he looks rather lonely, all by himself.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Moonlight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _1\. Moonlight:_  
>  Arya always felt like herself in Jon's arms, always felt welcomed, loved, and no longer in anyone's shadows. To him, she was the moon he howled to. He was the feeling of home.

When Arya was young, she dressed like a girl and ran barefoot through the grass and slush until she could outrun the Septas and their cruel words and harsh hands. Her dress would be hemmed with mud that streaked through the fabric and cause the maids and servants mounting stress as they would attempt to scrub the debris away.

She would battle imaginary monsters and wrestle with her younger brother, fearlessly scratching and biting, until her father would need to pull them apart. She was fearless and head strong, too much like Lyanna and too little like her dear sweet sister, as she's always told. She hates it -- hates being compared to either of them. She's never met Lyanna, and even though she feels proud to be related to her, she feels like she'll always be overshadowed by her, as with Sansa as well. Arya was determined to become her own person, to push and shove out of their shadows so people could focus on  _her,_ rather than someone who she wasn't. No matter what she did, no matter how many dresses she soiled, or how many stitches she got wrong, she still felt like an ugly duckling next to Lyanna's ghost and Sansa in her pretty dresses. They still tried to change her, build her into a doll to play with and tug at.

It wasn't fair.

To her lord father, a humble man with kind eyes and a scratchy beard, as she had noted when she was forced to peck him on the cheek before bed, still saw her as a little girl, not yet ready to grow up and still expecting for her to run off and marry some foreigner. To her father she was only a little girl. To her mother, she was only pricked finger, a nuisance, an unbudded flower that had yet to grow up and become a rose like her stupid sister. To Robb, she was a shadow, always following after him and trying to get him to play foolish games, always trying to follow after him and Theon when they disappeared from time to time. To Sansa, she was a mouse, or perhaps a duck, hiding from the graceful swan with cold eyes and sharp words. To Bran, she was the older sister, always muddy and getting him into trouble when they roughhoused too much. To Rickon -- well, Rickon was a baby, he didn't count.

However, to Jon, she was everything. From the time that she could walk, they walked together, little shadows that fit together in the library so nobody could find them. They were the sparrows in the courtyard, fluttering around each other but never wandering too far without the other. They were nearly identical, with dark hair that whispered around their faces with dark eyes and long faces. He helped her hide from the Septas, even lent her his old clothes when he outgrew them because asking for someone to tailor her pants or shirts would be suspicious. To Jon, she was the moon, bright and giving off a radiant light. He was the lone wolf that howled, trying to be with her, even when his bastard status kept him away, as well as her mother. They were the sun and stars, no matter where they where, they were a part of the same sky.

He was her everything, and without him she was nothing. A shadow on the wall, the dying fire in an empty room, a mouse in the crevice. He would offer her small, sweet smiles and ruffle her hair and call her "little wolf" and no matter what she did; if she ruined Sansa's dress, or put frog eggs in Robb's pickled jams, or messed up her stitching, he would always wait for her and sweep her up into his arms and promise her the world and the sky beyond. When the shadows in her room grew long and dark, she would follow him into his room, kicking him awake by accident as she crawled into his bed. He would sleepily open his eyes, groggily ask if she was okay, then wrap his arms around her and nuzzle his face into her dark hair. Robb, from across the room, would sleepily ask what the matter was, but Jon would only laugh the matter away. Even if he was tired from training, he would talk to her until she fell asleep, with him closely following after, loosely tangled in each other's arms, eyelashes pressed against their cheeks like butterfly kisses and their hands entwined, like it was all that was keeping them rooted, keeping them from floating away into the night.

They were the shadows on the walls, the cats that yowled at the dogs who chased after them, the mice that hid inside the houses, the whispers on the wind. They were the lone wolves that made a pack, chasing each other until they fell, howling with laughter and playing with each other until they tired. They were harshly kept secrets that were only spoken at night, under the shade of the moon, where they only had each other for company. Arya knew she was home the moment Jon held her in his arms.

She would forever be home with him, and nothing could separate them.


	2. Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _2\. Beauty:_  
>  She was wild and fierce like a wolf, biting and lashing out like wildfire, and a smile as sharp as a sword, dressed in men's clothes and with hair cut short, but Jon would always remember her as the girl with the same grey eyes, the one who he helped steal lemon tarts with from the kitchen. He wonders where that girl went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very pleased with how much you guys approve of this. I am so glad you all enjoy it. I hope I can only live up to your expectations.  
> Again, I apologize for not exactly following the theme; it takes a life of its own, the prompt just kickstarts short oneshots.

She's grown up and he had missed it.

She was still as thin as a stick, flat chested and with next to no waist aside from a slight dip, although he suspected that that had come from lack of nourishment. She was still as tiny as ever, never quite reaching his height, but she still had the same wild, grey eyes. In a memory from a long time ago, back when he was just Jon Snow, Bastard of Lord Stark, he recalled the nights they spent staying up, whispering to each other in hushed tones. They would stare at each other in the dark and map the stars on their skin. He remembers when he had to chase Sansa away and promise that he would always think as Arya as the prettiest girl in his life, no matter how many times Sansa and Jeynr called her horseface. He looks at this older girl, not even five and ten yet, and wonders what caused her to grow up so cold-hearted.

Where once her eyes were a warm shade of grey, always letting a smile reach into the smooth textures, were now cold to him. Her hair was short and at odd lengths in some areas, like someone hacked it off unprofessionally. Her hand twitches, and he recognizes it for what it is; a groping movement for her sword. He licks his cracked lips and feels his breath puff out in front of him in a cloud of white. He watches her and she him; like wolves watching the elk herd. But when had they ever faced each other? When had they ever turned on each other in favor of seeing who was the strongest? They had always stood by each others' side, because they were different from the others. What had changed her so? It was Jon's next thought that stilled him; what if it was him that had changed? He had fought against the Boltons to charge after Arya -- who turned out to not be her, after all. Had he only done that because of the guilt he felt because he knew the distance truly was separating their bond, or was it truly because he still felt connected to her?

"Jon," she says, her voice hard as steel and her eyes equally so. "Jon, do you remember me?" His thoughts stutter and stumble, but then he catches himself. While her voice was flat and nearly like she was talking to a brick wall, he could still sense the way that it wasn't just a question but rather a very important one, especially by the way she shifted her feet, loosening her stance just by a couple fractions, by the way her jaw tightens and her brows furrow like their fathers' did. He knew that this was important to her but he wasn't sure how to answer.

"Yes," he says, hand still clutched around his blade's handle, watching her with the same cool eyes. Her expression changes just a little bit, softening just a fraction, but she still didn't look like the girl that he once knew.

"I've hurt people, Jon," she says, her voice barely above a whisper but in the stark coldness and the horrid whiteness beyond the Wall, it was all that there was, aside from the piercing whistle of the wind.

He knows what she says is true; her eyes are dark and almost lifeless, her sword hand still twitching, the way she restlessly shifts her posture just a bit, just to make sure that she doesn't freeze again. She looks like their father did after a beheading each time, a layer of hardness rising in her gaze to protect herself.

"That's okay," he says. He has hurt people too, has fought with others and been the reason why others died. Jon has spent endless nights staring up at the sky, wondering countless things.

He has since stopped praying to the Old Gods; he has prayed for their father's safety, for Robb's safe return to Winter fell, for Bran and Rickon to be strong enough to hold their home, even for Sansa to stay strong until Robb got her, until they could go home again. Arya had been in his thoughts the most; he prayed for her safety and for her to find her way home. The Old Gods had laughed at his pleas and mocked him, smiting him in the way of causing the downfall of his siblings -- and yet here Arya was.

"I've  _killed_ people," she tries again, as if trying to make him hate her. Her voice is almost pleading, breaking just enough for a small amount of emotion to flood in -- but he can't tell what it is. _By the Gods; we've grown apart._ He thinks, and it's almost as heart wrenching as when his fellow Crows died. He trained with them certainly, but Arya would always be his little sister, so if he couldn't even recognise some part of her, or her recognise some part of him, it was almost unnatural. They had spent their childhoods chasing each other in the Godswood, smearing mud on each others' face as they pretended to be warriors, had even bathed together until Sansa freaked out, and even covered for each other when they were to be chewed out for a trick gone wrong. Where one went, the other followed, up until he joined the Night's Watch. They knew each other better than they knew themselves; to no longer recognise each other was like becoming an entirely different person with no idea of how it happened or who you were going to become. It was devastating.

"Does that matter, little wolf?" He asks, meaning to sound fierce and protective and good, like haven from all the horrors she's faced, but he just sounds broken. Maybe they're both broken.

Something in her expression breaks then, her face twisting and her mouth pinching in a way that reminded him vaguely of Catelyn, but he couldn't -- wouldn't -- think of his sweet Arya that way, reference her to someone who hated him with a passion, especially when Arya seemed to love him so much.

Her breath fogs out in bright puffs as she steps forward, her little fists clenching together as she took hesitant steps forward, her eyes glistening slightly, bundled in loose firs and thin leather. Then she nearly throws himself at him, scrabbling at him with needy hands and clutching at him with wracking sobs of relief that shook her body. She doesn't look like the hardy girl that she had become anymore, instead she looks like the little girl that he left behind; the little girl that he left to protect. He feels smaller, younger even, like the boy who had the world to conquer, the one who had promised the same little girl he held in his arms the world, promising her with gentle looks and welcoming arms and the promises of adventures in the kitchen for lemon tarts.

Her head is tucked in the crook between his neck and shoulder, hands gripping tightly at him, and even though it hurts, especially with his close to the stab wounds they were, he only hugs her tighter. They are no longer the little children who ran from their problems and chased after it with swords and oaths, but nor are they the people they have become. They just are, unafraid to let the other see them raw and tormented, their eyes swimming with ghosts and hands covered in blood, but together they are home, together they are themselves; who they want to be, used to be, and are.

"Don't let me go," she cries out quietly, breathless.

"I won't."


	3. Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _3\. Cake: ___  
> _Blue frosting is smeared along her face, and she's just positively glaring at Jon with the wrath and ferocity of a mountain lion with it's claws out. ___  
> _But Jon is still grinning, and then musses her hair, and then something happens, something shifts between them and Robb feels like he's watching something intimate. He was ready to hightail it out of there._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, apparently there was a brief submission problem. I think it's cleared up now.
> 
> This time it's modern setting -- in Robb's point of view looking inwards.  
> Robb and Jon are 12-14  
> Arya is 7-10  
> Bran is 7-8  
> Arya and Bran are closer in age because I couldn't have Bran too young and not notice the subtle-ness between them.
> 
> Merda, I am sorry, fellow Jonrya fans, I seem to keep following the same theme in each prompt. I swear I will try to broaden the terms a bit.
> 
> Again, thank you for all your support. I'm a bit iffy on responding to all of it because I'll probably embarrass myself but I appreciate it all, especially for a rare pair such as this. Thank you all. This miniseries is dedicated to all of you.

Robb swings his lean legs over the edge of their porch, contemplates running up onto the roof then leaning over the edge and spitting on some poor sod's head, but then thinks better of it. It was too much work and it was way out of his way. Bran is beside him, his body warm and flushed against his older brother's, the eldest who barely spends any time with him so this unto itself is a rarity. Whereas Robb looked like their mother, Bran took a bit after their father but still evidently closer to in appearance to their shared mother. Robb has rosy locks, a dark ginger that tumbles across his brow and makes his features more prominent. Bran was fortunate enough to have a dustier color, more of auburn descent, a nice mix of their father's dark brown and their mother's pale rose. Bran almost looks like a girl, with smooth skin and thin eyebrows and a curved mouth when he smiles. They share the same eyes, eyes that keep on glancing at each other because this is perhaps getting awkward.

Bran lowers his eyes, scrubbing his thumb nail along the crusting icing along the fleshy part between his thumb and index finger, before he raises the hand to his mouth and clumsily licks the frosting from between his fingers, blue and green smearing along his fingertips with each swipe. The day is hot, even though it's nearing the end of summer. The August sun beats down on them, growing gentle as the day wanes on. Robb feels his shirt plaster against his back, but he doesn't move from this position.

"She's going to go berserk with those lessons," Bran says with a straight face. Robb tenses involuntarily for a brief moment, evidently surprised that his younger brother spoke up then. Their relationship was pretty neutral; neither stressed nor friendly, it just was. "Dad shouldn't have gotten them for her."

Robb looks over at his brother, who is scrawny and practically sticks and twigs, just like Arya. His auburn locks are mussed up from Robb's attempts to give him a noogie, sticking in odd angles, but it seems to suit him, even though everybody usually sees him with hair that loosely plasters around his face. Everybody seems to think that Bran grow up to look like him; Robb isn't sure how he thinks about that. Perhaps he should feel proud or dismayed. Perhaps he should talk to Bran more, because he's getting the inkling of a thought that perhaps one day they'll grow up, move away, and not recognize each other in the street. It leaves a hollow feeling in his chest.

"Jon would've gotten her the lessons then," the eldest brother explains, realizing that perhaps the younger would like an answer; he lifts himself so that he isn't cushioning his leg and sprawls it out in front of him with the other, pins and needles flashing through him and he frequently moves his leg then to get feeling to rush back in. Even though he'd protest that thirteen was an age where a boy could be considered an adult, even when he very much so liked to be a boy and play pranks and chase around Sansa with sticks, pretending that they were swords. He truthfully felt awful about it now, but her screams of how he was ruining things always seemed worth it. Bran's mouth quirks up in a small smile, and Robb feels like he's won the Grammy's because they aren't close, not like Jon and Arya are. It feels like a personal achievement, and his hope is reinforced that perhaps their bond will strengthen.

He almost doesn't realize that a silence has drifted between them, with Bran staring forward with an almost vacant expression, blue eyes dazed. "He would, wouldn't he," he observes quietly, then wipes the remainder of the icing onto his shorts. The way he said it left no room for argument, not that the eldest Stark would've disagreed in the first place; it was true, Jon seemed willing to do anything for Arya. It unnerved him on a level that he couldn't explain, in a way that left him giving them odd looks, and feeling as if he kept on intruding on something important every time he walks in on them playing video games in Arya's room. He remembers them looking up at him with doe eyes, startled and looking like they were caught red-handed, but confusion evident in their similar eyes. They didn't know what they had been caught at and frankly, Robb hadn't known what he had caught them doing either, with their shoulders pressed together and their ankles touching loosely. It was unusual.

So, Robb only  _hmm'_ d in thought before resting his palms on the wooden porch of their, well, fairly large house. "Maybe," he says, even though it was a definite yes. He pushes himself up before standing, confident enough in himself that he won't fall, despite the blood rushing to his feet and threatening to trip him. He knows Brandon would laugh at him so he manages to stay uprooted. "Hey, do you want another piece of cake?" He asks with a mischievous grin. Even though it was Arya's birthday and she typically overruled who got cake and how much, didn't mean that Robb didn't try to steal some. However, he always seemed to feel her watching him afterwards, just like she knew. Or rather, Jon saw him take it and flat out told Arya; the little sneak. Or rather, tall sneak, because Jon was a couple inches taller than him, which positively infuriated him to no ends. But Jon, being Jon, was rather humble about it, so Robb forgave and forgot it, for the most part.

"I .." Bran pauses, reconsidering his older brother's words before craning his head back with a small frown, brows furrowed together in thought, his cheeks pulled in consideration of his own words. "I don't know what to expect if I go in there. So, no, I don't think I want another piece, even if I convinced you to get me one."

Robb's thoughts still, his mind still caught up in how he could try to steal the rest of the cake gradually -- because, he admits, he is greedy when it comes to sweets -- and instead tries to find the implications in Bran's words, but he can't think of what he means. His eyes glaze over in a placid expression, evidently a bit confused and his hands go up to his hair, getting a bit long but nowhere near as long as Bran's which swoops to the middle of his neck. He tries to think outside the box, tries to think of the other's words in a different angle, but he can't; everytime he thinks he's come close to the answer it evades him. His eyebrows arch up into his hairline, and echoes, "What to expect in there?"

Bran places his palms along the edge, draws his knees up, then swivels, even though it looks like it hurts. Robb briefly admires his strength and bravery to do such a feat, because Robb wouldn't have risked getting slivers in his butt, like last time. "Yes," he says, as if he were speaking to a child. The older Stark feels almost small and tiny then, as if just a pawn in a game of chess. Admittedly, he hates the feeling and feels relieved when Bran relents, a peculiar expression adorning his features. "You really don't know?"

"Don't know what?"

"..The way that Arya gets when Jon visits -- you haven't noticed? I - they're like best friends." The way that his younger brother explains it sounds like he's meaning something else entirely, but he can't place his finger on what. Robb gets the feeling that he  _doesn't_ want to know, not truly, even though something else also tells him that it's very important. "They're joined at the hip; they hang out together  _all the time._ "

Robb waves his hand, almost angrily and dismissively. The thought is absurd, a shadow that deserved to be discarded into the line of light, because such a thought shouldn't -- can't -- exist. It was too preposterous, and for his younger brother to suggest a thing was lunacy. "No, they're not! Jon is with me most of the time."

Brandon doesn't look the least bit impressed, his face skeptic and his mouth going in a firm line like their father's does. He sweeps his arms in an arc and says with cheek evident in his voice, "Really? Who is he with right now?"

"That isn't -- that's not even -- it's her birthday! Of course he'd spend it with her!" He proclaims, feeling as if he's completely missing the point that Bran was getting at. It's out of his grasp again, because it seems so unnatural, so surreal that he can't wrap his head around it. What kind of bond did the two share anyways? They ended each other's sentences, sent secretive looks, shared smiles and laughed at jokes that nobody else knew. When they looked at each other, the rest of the world fell away into a dark abyss. It wasn't fair because really, Robb was right there, he demanded to spend time with Jon too, especially when he could only visit on the weekends. No matter the bond his younger sister and friend shared, mattered not, for Jon was Robb's first -- the idea irked him and he knew if he spoke of it when Theon was around, he'd howl with laughter -- and by seniority, he overruled whatever Arya wanted. Right?

"Alright, alright -- who was he with last weekend?"

"I --  _Bran!_ I'm not just going to hogtie Jon and keep him by my side all the time, that's absurd." His face is flaming, he knows it; he feels like he's the fool in a deck of cards and that Bran has a full house. Whatever that means, because Robb really sucked at cards. A habit that Uncle Robert tried to get him into but he wasn't to keen on it, especially when they bet with money, because then Robb always loses a wad of cash.  _Jon doesn't play with us either, then,_ he realizes slowly. Jon wasn't too good at cards but at crept off and later, when Robb would stagger through the door, feeling sick because Uncle Robert had offered him a drink and really, it was rude to deny it, but he had been none the wiser on the effects, but he knows what he saw and what he would see when he steps into the living room is Arya crouched between Jon's knees, her back pressed against his chest and a blanket wrapped around them. The remnants of a movie would play and their eyes would be closed and Robb would flee, because it seems so odd -- so surreal, so unnatural, but he still can't get a grasp on what it is.

"Maybe you should," Bran says irritably, and the older boy just gaps at him like a fish after he realizes what his innocent brother proposed.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Robb says slowly, eyeing him skeptically, his mind still on catching Jon and Arya doing everything together, sometimes including Bran, sometimes Robb, sometimes even Theon, sometimes Mycah and Arya's friend Harry who everybody called "Hot Pie". No matter how many people they included in their pair, it always seemed off, and despite feeling included, the two similar-looking people would always have a connection that nobody could interject into. In their world, only they existed to each other.

"Never mind," the younger boy says, turning around again and staring into the yard to where Sansa was reading a book in the shade. "You know, maybe I'll have another piece after all. Robb, will you get me one?"

The older leaves then, not willing to say another word, and creeps along the porch, being careful not to slip and fall down because really, he still doesn't want slivers in his butt or thighs or any other inconvenient place, he doesn't need Bran's odd friend Osha helping him again, it was really absurd. He opens the door and slips into the house, not bothering to kick off his shoes as he marches across the plain looking living room, where he moves past the awkwardly placed couch and dodges Rickon's whine of protest as he darts in front of the TV. Robb barely hesitates as he moves towards the doorless archway that led into the kitchen. His footsteps only falter when he gets there.

As Bran implied, Jon and Arya were together, as they had always been since she was young and could prattle around with her tiny feet, clutching at Jon's legs until she could clamber away on her own, even though she never strayed far. Jon's schoolwork is scrawled along the table top, a pencil clutched loosely in his right hand, teetering between his fingers as he watches across the table to where Arya was sitting, happily munching away on some cake, watching him right back. She's relaxed, chattering away about her archery lessons that she convinced father to get her a month prior and about how Jon must surely join her jousting lessons, it'd be so much fun with him around.

Jon smiles at her words, soft and gentle in nature just like him, and nods in agreement to her words. They have similar eyes, grey and cool like slushy snow or even like ashes, but Jon's eyes aren't glazed over like Robb half-expected them to be, instead he is intently looking at the Stark daughter, completely focusing on her and not his homework from earlier that day. Even though he's relaxed, his posture indicates that she's the only thing that matters, the sun that his world revolves around. His mouth quirks up at the corners in that familiar, quiet manner of his as he quietly responds to whatever question she asks of him.

Robb's gaze flicks over towards Arya and nearly jerks at the blunt devotion in her eyes, the openness in her expression that was usually hidden by a tough exterior and mud streaked across her face. Her hair is actually combed, dark, sleek and long enough to dust along her shoulders, her mouth stained blue and green but neither of them seem to mind. Her hands are animatedly moving, her eyes bright as Jon interjects a few ideas here and there.  _By the Gods,_ Robb thinks,  _She's happy._ She normally was seen as a bundle of savage energy, always picking fights and playing video games and roughhousing with boys. However, here, with Jon, she seemed like a girl, but not quite either, she seemed more human than Robb has ever seen her. She's talking loudly and without deter, glad to have somebody to listen to her, without objection or ridicule and acceptance. She never seemed so alive before, laughing with her head tipped back and her feet swinging off of the chair.

Jon is watching her too, pencil dropping from his fingers and his dark matted half-curls wisping around his face as he unexpectedly reaches forward to swab a swipe of icing from her cake and Robb isn't sure why, but he expects Arya to appear scandalized or at least expect her to demand for Jon to get his own. Instead, she slides her plate across and offers him the same fork that she was using. Jon moves his papers aside, abandoned in favor of the girl in front of him and smiles at her tenderly, taking the fork from her and taking a mouthful, nodding along to whatever Arya was saying. It takes Robb a minute to notice, but Arya's short feet are brushing against Jon's longer legs underneath the table, like she's kicking him but the action is gentle, not lingering long enough for the redhead to think that it was intended.

They're different around each other, open and free and playful, bringing each other up with kept promises and secrets and whispers, gentle looks and soft smiles, giving and taking affection and simply being themselves. The way they move, it's like they know what the other one will do, talking but knowing that the other will listen, not judge, and even finish the sentence or offer ideas. They're tighter than twins, they have a friendship that would be the envy of best friends everywhere, they knew each other from childhood, where promises were kings and playgrounds were their castle. Jon says something, and Arya howls with laughter, and the dark-haired boy simply goes, "Shh, shh, shh. Not so loud! They'll hear you." But his eyes are bright and full of promises of the world, and Arya is looking at him like he's the greatest person she ever will know.

Robb suddenly feels like he's invading some private moment, like he's stepped into the world made just for them where nobody scorns them or judges them, eavesdropping even when they're talking loud enough for Rickon to hear if he wanted. Arya's eyes darken like fire and she playfully nudges Jon with arm, harsh and brutal but Jon only laughs it off, because she means the world to him and he'd do anything for her so getting a punch is a price he's willing to pay because she's laughing alongside him. He moves to muss her hair and then Robb has to look away, because something shifts, Arya's breath stutters for a brief moment but then she grabs onto Jon's hand atop of her's and removing it, trying to scowl but her smile is wide and carefree. Their hands remain joined on the table.

Robb leaves, returning to his younger brother's side, not saying anything and not offering an explanation as to why he took so long and didn't bring cake along either for his troubles. Brandon's knowing glance is enough. He feels as though something's slid into place, the last piece of the puzzle, like the last storm cloud has cleared and he sees the sun; everything makes sense and he's finally caught up to the thought that's evaded him, even if it still evades him occassionaly. He knows what Jon and Arya has is special, like Mother and Father's relationship, or like Jeyne and Sansa's friendship, like Uncle Brandon and Aunt Lyanna's sibling bond was told to be like. He knows that they're each other's best friends, unrelated siblings, and childhood crushes -- but then he wonders if they know it yet. Robb thinks about it and leans back, letting the sun cast it's rays down on him.  _Today is a good day,_ he thinks.

Bran's teasing voice interrupts his thoughts, "So... where's my cake?" Robb laughs.


	4. Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _4\. Art_  
>  She is walking alongside her cousin, but where her cousin was saddled with Italian fashion, Arya kept a heavyset camera dangling along her neck. Her mouth is set in a straight line, her hands clasped tightly along her precious possession. The people who normally crowded the streets of Venice were filing out, returning to their homes soon enough. She looks from storefront to storefront, looking but not seeing. She's about to turn onto another street when someone catches her attention, a young man who is sitting alone, a canvas in front of him and splashes of paint dotting it. She can't help but think he looks rather lonely, all by himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was playing ACII recently when I had an idea for this prompt.
> 
> I apologize if the Russian or Italian is not correct; they are not my native nor second language, nor am I studying it. I had to use a translation.
> 
> This drabble was uploaded today as an apology for the mixup with the previous chapter.

The steady gurgle of the water rushing beneath the bridge calms her temper, soothing her savage heart and calming her nerves, but her grip does not slacken on the heavy equipment in her hands. The bustle of the Italian city is slowly trickling away, the day drawing to a close, the 5 PM sun drifting lazily above them. She swats at her bare neck, her hair no longer than her chin, a loose scarf wound around her neck, bundling close to her skin. Unlike her cousin, who is flitting around and carefully looking at everything, she had opted to wear thick and bulky sweaters that swoop down past her hipline, practically shrouding her in dark colors. She moves to brush a lock of hair behind her ear, but her hand catches on nothing and she swears loosely, evidently not used to having short hair. She looks around then notices her dark haired cousin dart into a small little bakery, chatting up a dark russet-haired man at the counter, who seems quiet and unsure of the attention, but as her cousin barrages the man he loosens up. Arya turns on her heel, not wishing to see Sansa flirt with another Italian any longer and instead resumed her solemn walking.

_Italy's weather is different than Russia's,_ she thinks dully, scuffing her boot into the stones beneath her feet. Heavy Italian voices flit around her, but she ignores most of them. She doesn't care much for the heavy bustle, the fashion design nor the delicacies that Venice offers. She shouldn't have taken up Sansa's offer to visit Venice with her. It was an absolute disaster, truly.

" _Это глупо._ (This is stupid.)" She stomps her foot down noisily and huffs in annoyance, fumbling with her camera and grumpily exchanging SD cards, shoving it into her jean pocket, eyes lowering as she insert the next card. " _Sansa получает бежать и флиртовать с мальчиками , и я застрял здесь . Она лучше получить мне пончик или что-то._  (Sansa gets to run off and flirt with boys and I'm stuck here. She better get me a donut or something.)" She adjusts her hold on the camera then brings it up to her face, peering through the lens and adjusting them as she swung around slowly, taking in the scenery. She snaps quick shots of the birds that tweeted on the rooftop, then lowers her camera and professionally cleans her lenses. _"По крайней мере, я могу взять приличные фотографии ; Венециядовольно приличное место._ (At least I can take decent photos; Venice is a pretty decent place.)" She brings it up to her eyes and swivels, taking a picture of a wet tabletop next to an abandoned coffee shop, the light rain nearly two hours prior had made it a decent place for a shot. She pivots on her foot again, about to snap another picture when she slows, turns, and focuses back on a lone person, sitting on a evidently wet bench, a canvas propped up in front of him. She lowers her camera and watches him expertly dip his paintbrush onto his easel before spreading it along the parchment, shadows lengthening on the paper until it began to resemble something akin to a person. His hand is steady, careful and full of intent. His entire focus was on the painting.

She was enraptured. Arya crept along the street, bumping into a person and cursing them out in Russian before she shifts over again, to get a decent shot of the man. He couldn't be much older than her, probably twenty seven at most, with a freshly shaved face and a strong jawline and long face, but other than that he his cheekbones and nose speak highly of his Italian heritage. His hair is dark like her's, eyes a gentle blue-grey that shows emotion in varying degrees and spoke volumes about him, he had the air of a solemn man and a lonely one at that. She brings the camera up and adjusts the lenses, zooming in on his face and his rapt attention on the painting. It is like he's pouring out his emotion into it, his mouth slightly agape and his eyes focused and vivid, hand loose around the brush. She takes a photo then lowers her camera, wondering how a decent looking Italian like him could look so alone. Well, aside from the fact that he  _was_ alone. She notices that he wasn't actually painting, his brush only hovering above the canvas before he draws back to scratch at his cheek in slight irritation. She notices him begin to shift and realizes that he's going to get up to leave.

" _Подождите минуту!_ (Wait a minute!)" She calls out, voice thick in a Russian accent, and her words still clung to her native language. Normally, she would have hung back and watch him leave, let alone take his picture, but for some reason his loneliness was calling out to her, pulling her in. Perhaps it was his solemn eyes or the fact that he was painter, but whatever it was, it was something that she couldn't ignore. When she wanted something, she wouldn't relent on it. Arya thinks fast, trying to think of all the Italian that she learned in preparation for this trip. " _Accidenti , attendere per me ! Devo parlare con te !_ (Damn, wait for me! I have to talk to you!)" But he's already gone, canvas and easel and all. He's become one with the shadows on the wall, disappearing somewhere where she couldn't see him.

Sansa walks out to her, dark hair spilling along her back is ringlets and she's slipping a note into her pocket, looking absolutely pleased. " _Ты в порядке ?_ (Are you okay?)" she asks, noticing the forlorn look on her similar-looking cousin. Arya turns to her, looking into Sansa's pretty blue eyes, opens her mouth to say something but then decides against it. " _Я в порядке. Я просто - по фигу , это не важно ._ ( I'm fine. I just - nevermind , it doesn't matter.)" Sansa's eyes are skeptical, and her brow furrows enough for her to look like her father and Arya's Uncle Brandon. The younger shifts her feet, feeling like the nineteen year old that she was, before she dejectedly mutters for her to not worry about it. However, as they leave, she looks over her shoulder, as if expecting the mysterious man to materialize back there.

Somehow, she feels like she's lost something and that bothers her more than anything.

* * *

 

She doesn't see the strange man for a week until suddenly he's there. Arya and Sansa are halfway through their trip, almost at the point where her parents would be joining them to make a deal with some French immigrants that came to Italy, the Lannisters as well as their American spouses, or something, Arya hadn't really cared too much about it, she was too wrapped up in her photography assignment and with finding that stranger. Again, it has freshly rained, and again his easel is set up. Arya hadn't arrived in the square until recently, but it seemed like he's been there a while, a couple blank canvases scattered on the bench beside him, bottles of paint open and a half-finished painting in front of him. It isn't even of the scene in front of him, a perfect view of a bridge crossing the waterway. Arya presses her face against the glass of the bakery, where Sansa is chatting up the baker, who turns out to be named Robert "Robb". Sansa whisks over to her side, her ebony hair tugged back into a tidy bun, loose strands skimming across her cheeks from where it had since spilled across her brow. She offers Arya a small box of pastries, who takes it but doesn't eat any.

"They are kan - cahhn - _cannoli_ ," Sansa says, fluent in English but having difficulty pronouncing the Italian's sweet's name. Arya knows enough English to strike up a conversation, but she often gets confused, as German and Russian are native languages that she knows best. Likewise, Sansa only knows English and Russian, but seeing as she spent more time in her mother's native home, her Russian is a bit rusty, but better than Arya could hope to achieve with English. Arya stares at the older girl who shrugs a bit sheepishly. "Do you not like it?" she murmurs. "I could exchange it for a different sweet."

" _Нет - это нормально._ (No, it's okay.)" Arya glances back through the glass of the Venice bakery, watching the man attempt to paint. She glances down curiously at her pastry box then pops one of the  _cannoli_ into her mouth, the custard-like insides squishing between her teeth as she took a bite. Sansa was watching her intently, so she swallows and smacks her lips, savoring the taste, then smiles. "It -- is good," she says, accent heavy and words uncertain, clicking together in a way that doesn't sound right. It doesn't round right to Sansa either because her brows scrunch up but she doesn't say much else, so it musn't have been too bad. "Thank you," she says, the words still choppy in her mouth but she means it. Sansa beams and nods.

"Let me know if you need anything else, _сестренка_ (sister)," Sansa says casually, smiling gently, resting her palm against her cousin's baggy sister before she moves back towards the counter where Robb is, dark red-brown hair messy looking and his eyes tired but he seems pleased that Sansa's there. Arya and Sansa weren't sisters, not truly, but they looked well enough alike that they could be claimed as such.

_"Buongiorno , mia signora . (_ Good day, my lady)" Robb talks politely to her and Sansa beams. Arya says nothing and closes the top of the thin cardboard box, like what one would get from a Chinese restaurant, before she moves towards the door. She gathers up her courage and moves through the slick street, grinning as she approaches the man from before. He's hunched over, in different clothes than before, a simple cream cotton shirt and jeans.

"He-llo," she calls out, her English sounding bad even to her. The man tenses at the sudden noise from beside him and he turns to look at her, surprise evident in his pale blue-grey eyes. Then a smile dances across his lips, even if it's nervous. She offers some of  _cannoli_ to him. "Do you - talk - Eng-rish?" Arya pronounces carefully. The man watches her warily before nodding.

_"Sì,_ " he says, and Arya relaxes. He's still eyeing the box of treats warily, not taking any of the Italian treats from her nor moving over to make room for her. "Do you need help,  _signora?_ " Arya quickly shakes her head.

"N-o. I saw you --" she waves one of her free hands around, not quite sure what the word was that she was looking for. "-- paint here be-fore. I - curious." She feels something like shame shoot through her because evidently her English isn't as good as his is. "Do you talk Russian?"

He shakes his head.  _"Scusate, signora._ I do not." Arya lets out a sigh of defeat.

She offers him the box of  _cannoli_ again. "These not poisoned," she explains, feeling ashamed all over again. "They co-me from there." She waves over towards the bakery behind her. His eyes, more blue than grey, light up in recognition.

" _Sì!_ Robb is there?" She nods and he seems less cautious about taking a  _cannoli_ from her now, and pleasantly hums a tune after he finishes eating one. "Do you wish to sit here,  _signora?_ " Her quick nod has him scooting over to make room for her, and she gladly sits beside him.

"What you work on?" she asks, not caring if it sounded right at all then or not.

"I don't know,  _signora,_ I just paint what feels  _destra_ \- right," he admits. She nods in understanding. "Right now, I do not know what to do. It seems ...  _senza speranza -_ hopeless." She frowns and bites at her lip but then chooses to gnaw on one of the  _cannoli,_ listening to him speak Italian then translate the words for her as he explains what he's doing.

"Perhaps you paint me?" she asks hopefully, plowing down whatever he's been talking about. He turns to look at her, a baffled look crossing his features, his eyes widening and his hair is a harsh curl around his face.

_"Mi scusi , signorina?"_

"You --," she points to him for dramatic effect, then points to the canvas, "paint," then she points to herself, "me." The baffled look he is still sending her is irritating her so she's about to attempt to speak Italian - which she only knew enough to understand a few words, so it'd be horrible, really -- when he nods harshly.

_"Sì , signora! Quello che vuoi._ (Yes, miss, whatever you want.)" He hums to himself lightly as he motions for her to sit on the bench opposite of where he is. She agrees to his instruction and he sets up the canvas and puts a blank one onto it. He turns to his paints then turns back to her. "Which _colore_ do you want,  _signora_?" he asks, voice rough from the heavy Italian accent but she likes it, so she quickly motions to the red. He nods and opens it and splatters it along his palette then instructs her to get into a comfortable position.

"Thank you," she murmurs and he barely looks up from the canvas after he initially watched her, only glancing a few times to correct something. She knows what he is doing; he had done it with his other painting. He only used one color, but used varying shades for it. His last one had been in greyscale but it lay abandoned on the drying bench next to him.

"What is your  _nome, signora?"_ he asks of her and she nearly flinches, surprised that he bothered to ask.

"Arya," she says. His eyes flit over towards her and his brush strokes pause, and something is swirling in his dark gaze.

_"Sì,"_ he murmurs, because it seems like the only suitable response. "I am Jon." She smiles at this information and tries again.

"Thank you, Jon."

She swears that he has a soft, secretive smile on his face as he continues to paint her. She idly thinks that he looks less lonely now. Maybe she is too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a bit of backstory, because I didn't want to clog up the first note. (Oh, is it a bad thing if each chapter has a note? It seems to be a habit of mine..)
> 
> Lyanna married Stannis and had Arya and Shireen. Davos and Mayra had Devan, Stannis, Steffan, Jon, and four other boys who died in a car accident. Brandon and Catelyn had Sansa and Rickon. Robb is a Tyrell, brother to Loras and Margaery. Ned and Lysa had Brandon and Sweetrobin. Benjen is engaged to Wyla (the woman who in the HBO's GOT, was supposedly Jon's mother).  
> The Starks are Russian, whilst the Seaworths are Italian, the Baratheons are German, Tyrells are American, and Tullys are either Australian or American.


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